Born to Die
by bouncingcrow
Summary: Argh. I have tried so very hard to ignore this and not obsess and write and...well, clearly I've failed. Listening to Lana Del Rey, I thought that Born to Die would make an excellent "songfic," so in the same style as my Avengers fic Bread and Butter, I present Born to Die, which follows Emma and Killian throughout some of their pivotal moments in the series. CaptainSwan
1. Feet don't fail me now

**Feet don't fail me now; take me to the finish line**

Her fingers dug into the tough leather of his lapels, pulling him forward into her. She wasn't entirely sure why she was doing this.

Pride was maybe an option; she hated being challenged.

Ok, yes, some lust was in there, as well. She wasn't immune to an attractive man who continued to show interest in her.

Gratitude wasn't actually in the equation, if she were being honest. Yes, she was grateful, but to pay him for being an honorable man, showing good form, as he would say, seemed dishonest.

Her lips crashed into his, and she felt him tense. She pushed her left hand up into his hair, tugging gently to let him know that this wasn't a trick, and the initial fierce meeting of their lips ended, only to be followed by another. As the shock wore off, she felt his own hand move to her neck, pulling her forward into him.

_Oh yeah, definitely some lust, Swan_, she admitted, as his tongue danced over hers.

And not one-sided, either, not that that was a surprise. She rocked against his body briefly, letting the sparks fly freely. She suddenly found that this was something she could and would take further, those sparks starting to kindle. Now was not the time, nor the place, and she could count on both hands – no joke intended there – the reasons that this was a bad idea.

She pulled hard on his lapels, and he stepped further into her space, as his arms were around her. She forced herself to pull away from his lips, inhaling frantically to try and slow her heartbeat and center herself again.

Their breath mingled between them, as Hook managed to breathe out, "That was-"

But she didn't want to know what he was going to say. Perhaps she knew, but the answer was no, "A one time thing," she finished for him.

And then she pulled away completely, forcing herself to turn around, willing her legs to move away from him, "Don't follow me. Go get some firewood or something," she called, not able to turn to look at him again for fear of not getting away.

His words followed her, "As you wish."

She smiled despite herself and managed to get past the threshold that would allow her to put the memory of that kiss away for a while.


	2. Every step that I take

**Oh my heart it breaks, every step that I take**

He watched in painful silence as Emma and Bae shared a goodbye. After all that had happened, all he had vowed – to win her heart, to prove that he could be a hero – and it was all being taken from him. She didn't approach him to say goodbye.

A moment of fear nearly choked him, that she would away, out of his life without so much as a word. He swallowed his pride and took those painful steps forward, needing to tell her...something, anything.

He managed to breathe her name, "Emma," reaching out to grab her if she hadn't heard, but she turned, and he could see the pain reflected there. All of the things that he wanted to do in this moment, and he felt miles away from her. He knew it would be bad form to sweep her into his arms, to plant a solid kiss on her lips, so he kept his distance, looking from her to the yellow contraption they would use to flee.

He offered a strained smile, "That's quite the vessel you captain there, Swan."

She gave a soft chuckle, her eyes sweeping over him, though those eyes were shimmering. It took her a moment to lift her eyes to meet his gaze, and when she did, he almost regretted his decision to come and say goodbye.

The world around them disappeared, the crowd behind them nothing to his mind. He studied her face, the curve of her cheek, long lashes framing her stunning eyes. He traced to line of her lips, mourned briefly that they were turned down, a frown that so often made its home on her beautiful face – a face, he thought, that deserved many more smiles.

He swallowed, met her eyes, "There's not a day will go by I won't think of you," he spoke just above a whisper, his words meant for her alone.

Her eyes held his, and he could see in them that she received his words, understood their depth, and was grateful. The air around them grew heavier the longer they held each others' gaze.

"Good," she offered, the slightest uptick in her lips.

He smiled then, understanding the offer she made, knowing that she was throwing back the same self-assured confidence that he so often provided. She smiled, too, the unspoken gratitude and regrets filling the space between them.

He saw he start to take a step forward, and before she could, he backed away, turning after a moment, unable to continue watching her prepare to leave his life, potentially forever. He felt himself crumbling, an unseen tremor taking him. He listened with growing dread as Regina explained the effects of reversing the curse, the knowledge that Emma would have no memory of him providing the final blow to his feelings. He would truly be lost to her.

Still, he stood stoically, determined to be a point of strength for Emma. When her eyes settled on him, he felt a swell in his chest. He could hear the storm coming, but still he would not take his eyes away, not until his last sight of Emma was ripped from him completely.


	3. At the gates

**Hope that at the gates, they'll tell me that you're mine**

He cast a bemused look over the ample bosom presented before him, bored and irritated. But he was ever a gentleman, so he simply turned away to resume his drinking. Try as he might, he was unable to shake the memory of Emma Swan, a constant pull on his thoughts and emotions. The rum that he tried to drown in did little to quiet or soothe.

His most lucid moments were filled with a faint ache that seemed to come from all around. He could only liken it to having his hand removed. It was a phantom itch that he could never scratch.

Sometimes he would remember her face in those moments when they said their goodbyes, and his chest would tighten to the point that he felt he wouldn't be able to breathe.

But the worst moments came right after waking, his lips aflame with the memory of their one impassioned kiss. In his dreams, she hadn't pulled away, hadn't put a period at the end of the sentence that was their potential.

_The moment was already uncomfortable and had Killian's skin itching. The tension could be cut with a knife – no words were used, and that made it all the worse. Until they came into a thicket, and finally Bae – Neal, he reminding himself - spoke, or muttered rather, "We're going to have to cut our way through."_

_Without hesitation, Emma swung the blade from the holster on her back, nearly nicking him in the face. Her blatant disregard stung, and he found his mood souring even further._

_The shock in Bae's eyes gave Killian a moment of fear._

"_My cutlass. You found it?"_

"_No, actually, Hook gave it to me."_

_The shock gave way to a small level of anger that Bae leveled on Killian,"Since when are you sentimental?"_

_It was a low blow, and he rolled his eyes, not wanting to be made to be the bad guy again, "I thought Emma would wish to have something to remember you by."_

_Bae turned swiftly away from the both of them, "Oh, thanks, she's got me now."_

_Killian bristled slightly; he was uncomfortable with the war within himself. He had been granted the gift of his old friend, once a boy under his charge, being returned, but in payment he found his hope in...other matters...stayed. He took a breath and made to follow, content to avoid the subject, even with himself until a better time presented itself. But he was stopped, Emma holding her hand out, as if to touch him, keep him from moving further. He stopped short, avoiding the contact._

"_Woah, what was that about?"_

_He sighed, "I assumed he heard our secrets. I also assumed that you told him of our shared momen-"_

"_Why would you assume that?"_

_He steeled himself, her words coming out so harsh and condescending, but he was honest to a fault when it came to her, "Because I was hoping it meant something."_

"_What meant something was that you told us Neal was still alive. Thank you. I realize you could have kept Pan's information to yourself-"_

"_Why would I have done that?" It was a stupid question. He knew the answer, and he knew it was just self-flagellation to draw the answer from her, but a part of him had to hear it._

"_I don't know. Maybe Pan offered you a deal; why else would he tell you?"_

"_It was a test. He wanted to see if I would leave an old friend to die, even if the friend is vying for the same woman I am."_

_Her face changed for a moment, "And you chose your friend?"_

_He smiled, the kind of defeated smile that he had adopted over the years, "Does that surprise you?"_

_She smiled back, "You are a pirate."_

_The blow struck home, as he knew it would, and he would be surprised if it didn't show on his face, "Yeah, that I am."_

_He scoffed slightly. He felt betrayed, dirty somehow, but he was at peace with who he was, and he had already made the decision, knew that this woman was what he wanted, so he didn't let her words defeat him, "But I also believe in good form."_

_He stepped closer to her, wanting her to feel the air around her change, feel the presence that he intended to have in her life, "So when I win your heart," he paused, catching her gaze, "Emma – and I will win it," he nodded to her, nothing ever said by him before more true than what he was saying in the moment, "it will not be because of any trickery. It will be because you want me."_

He had made that statement, knew it to be true, and yet...and yet here he was, all but a story with a, what was it she had said? - perm and waxed mustache. To a degree, he wasn't sure which fact was worse: the description of him in the movie she had spoken of, or the fact that he was nothing but that to her now.

Breath on his ear – he turned to the woman crudely brushing against his arm, "Sorry, love, but you'll have better luck elsewhere."

The look in his eyes, more than his words, had her turning away to find another bed to fall into for the night, and he returned to his musing.

There had to be a way. He had to find a way to get to her, to do what he had said he would do. He had been given hope in those last fateful moments, her happiness that she would stay on his mind, in his heart. It had meant something. No matter what she said, he knew that it had meant something.

He believed in good form, and that meant keeping his word.

It was weeks later when he received his answer, the message, scrawled on a scrap of paper, the vial of that precious potion that would bring Emma back to him attached. He had read it and knew then what he would do.

Finding the bean was the hardest part, not only for him. He had cut through nearly a dozen men to speak to the self-titled Wise Woman who had the bean. She was distressed over his actions, so when it came time to trade, she would take only one thing, and he gave it willingly.

Taking one last look at his home for the past few centuries, Killian opened the portal and let his heart guide him to where he needed to be, intent on bringing the savior back to Storybrooke, back to his arms.


	4. Is it by mistake or design

**Walking down the city streets, is it by mistake or design...**

There were days that her life felt like a dream; the here and now were real, tangible, but the past seemed a haze that was, at times, blurry. She couldn't pinpoint it. She could recall the first time she held Henry in her arms, could feel that tiny infant cradled against her, and yet...yet it seemed like a memory that was rehearsed. Moving to New York with him, his first day of school, all of them.

She was on her way into her office, deep in this reverie, when she stumbled into a man walking the other way. Her abrupt stop caused her coffee to spill out, covering both her and this stranger in the hot liquid. The man backed away, hissing in pain, and she just gawked for a moment, stammering an apology, "I...oh my...I'm so sorry. I-"

If she were a movie buff, she would have called this moment a meet-cute. But she wasn't, so it just seemed an unfortunate accident with a fairly attractive stranger. She didn't believe in fate, after all.

When their eyes met, the man's grumbling suddenly stopped, and he smiled, "Oh, hi. Sorry, I should have-"

"Don't apologize, I wasn't paying attention."

"I was lost in thought, and..."

They both stopped talking, smiling quietly for a moment.

The man offered his hand, still dripping coffee, "Walsh."

Emma gave a small chuckle, somewhat disbelieving of the interaction, and shook the offered hand, "Emma."

Walsh nodded, his eyes not leaving her face, "Nice to meet you Emma..."

Not wanting to get into some sort of introductory conversation, Emma shook her reverie, "Let me, uh, let me pay for those to be cleaned. I'm really so sorry."

He shook his head, "Absolutely not. I will, however, buy you a coffee."

She looked away, shifting her weight, "I don't know. I have a son, and I'm not really-"

His smile was disarming, "It's just coffee. Besides," he shrugged, "you owe me."

She groaned inwardly, "Okay. Fine, you're right." She leveled her business face at him, "Just coffee."

He held his arms up in surrender, "Just coffee," he chuckled, motioning across the street where a coffee shop was conveniently located. Dipping her head in acquiescence, she followed his lead to the nearby crosswalk.

Once inside, they placed their orders and sat at a table outside to let their clothes air out.

"Tell me about yourself, Emma," Walsh suggested, speaking over his mug, the steam blowing toward Emma, as if the conversion of liquid to vapor could be sexual.

"Well, I...I am a bails bondsman. I have a son, Henry, and I was on my way to work when I, quite literally, bumped into you."

She took a tentative sip of her own beverage, looking over at this stranger – Walsh, she reminded herself, rolling the name around her mind.

He choked on his coffee, "A bails bondsman? I wouldn't have, I mean, wow. That's fascinating."

She shrugged. Compared to her earlier life, catching people who had skipped bail was almost boring. Being on the run, a thief herself, that had been exciting. And, somehow, she felt that she was capable of so much more, but she never could have guessed what that much more could be, so she stayed where she was in life.

Walsh watched her a moment, then smiled, spoke again, his voice slightly higher-pitched, "And what do you do?"

She looked somewhat surprised, then embarrassed, and he continued, now in his normal voice, "I own a furniture store, actually."

Emma raised her eyebrow fractionally, "Oh, wow. I guess it's nearby?"

Walsh nodded and waved in vague direction, "A few blocks, yes. It was left to me, and I can't bear to part with it."

She hmmed at that, taking another sip of her coffee. Not one to open up to strangers, even strangers that she had just doused in coffee who then offered to buy her another coffee, she wasn't sure what else to say. She felt kind of lost, and her earlier reverie was still floating around her mind. How was she supposed to discuss her life when it felt so surreal?

"Do you have any other family in the area?" Walsh pressed, cutting into the silence.

She smiled sadly, "No other family. Just me and my son."

She offered no more than that, and he didn't press, realizing that the silence was more comfortable for her.

Aside from small talk, they didn't say much else, content to simply sit with one another, getting used to their presence. As their cups emptied, and Walsh realized his time was running out, he reached across, wrapping his hand over her wrist, "Emma, I would regret it forever if I didn't ask for your number. I'd like to take you to dinner sometime."

She hesitated, her eyes falling to his hand there on her wrist. Gradually, somewhat reluctantly, she nodded, reaching into her pocket for an old receipt or something and a pen. She looked up at him with a small smile, as she wrote the numbers onto the paper. She slid it across and stood, "Okay, Walsh. But for now, I have to go home, change, and then get to work."

He smiled back, watching her stand, then standing himself, "Then I will take my leave of you, Emma. Thank you." He held up the scrap of paper. She nodded, turned and walked back the way she had come.

She didn't look back; she was good at keeping her eyes forward. But she felt a slight flutter in her chest. It was ridiculous, she knew, but it had been so long...so long since she had met an actual gentleman. It felt like a minor victory, and she wouldn't allow herself to be overly optimistic, but she was trying to learn to accept the good things when they came, too. So if a secret smile found its way to her lips, well, she would just pretend it wasn't because of this stranger, this Walsh.

Walsh watched her go, looked down and tapped the number into his phone. When she was out of sight, he walked back the other way, selecting a number on his phone, and putting the receive to his ear.

He smiled at a few passerby, then glanced at the phone after a moment, "It's me. It's worked. I've offered to take her to dinner."

He nodded at whatever was said at the other end, "I don't believe so. She said she had no family, that it was just her and the boy. She didn't tell me much, but she will."

He hung up, slid the phone back into his pocket and continued on.


	5. All alone

**I feel all alone on a Friday night**

She stared into her glass of wine, her mind no longer following the ebb and flow of her conversation with Walsh. Instead, it studied the pattern of ripples of the liquid in the glass. She tried to remember when she started drinking wine.

It was before she was 21, of course. She had always been mature for her age, but that came from being in the system. It came from there being something so inherently wrong with her that even as a baby, no one wanted her. She had learned fast to take care of herself, and that didn't mean following the rules all the time.

She had started drinking wine before she met Neal, she felt confident of that. Well, drinking alcohol anyway. Wine was an acquired taste for her, and it had come later – after the fruity mixed drinks and cheap light beer. It had probably become more a staple after the year of not drinking, and then the years struggling to keep a roof over their head.

But damn it, she had kept a roof over their head. Sure she went hungry a few nights to make sure that Henry could eat, but she had turned all of it around. They were living in New York, and not in the slums, either. She made enough money now to keep a really nice roof over their heads, and she had done it all herself.

She focused again...wine. That was what she was thinking about, and yet somehow it always came back to the same thing.

"...and I thought the dress looked really good on me."

She looked up, an eyebrow raised in question.

Walsh smiled tiredly, "You seemed like you were somewhere else," he offered.

Emma frowned, "I...I'm sorry...Walsh, I just."

She shrugged, and he waited patiently for her to continue. When she didn't right away, he sighed and motioned to the door, "Do you want to get out of here?"

"No, no...nothing like that. I don't mean to sound unhappy or anything, it's just, I feel like things are stuck in rut. We've done the same thing every Friday for the past..."

"4 months," he said softly, reminding her how long they'd been dating.

She offered a small smile, "Right. 4 months."

In retrospect, maybe 4 months wasn't so long, but it felt like it. She still felt like an orphan, still felt alone sometimes, even sitting with this man on Friday night that she had been seeing for 4 months. Somehow it seemed so long, just another string of time nestled in with the rest of her life that dragged on, lonely and empty of...something.

She forced another smile, "So did you sell that high back chair yet?"

Walsh's concerned look gave way to a smile, and he chuckled, "No, I haven't. I guess you were right. It was a bad investment."

She held up her wine glass, "I have pretty good taste."

"That you do," he offered, clinking their glasses before taking a sip and continuing his original story.


	6. Will you make me feel like home

Quick note: Much longer than the previous chapters, this one. I honestly didn't know where to stop. Basically the entire New York City Serenade episode is encompassed in this particular line, in my head, so here it is.

**Can you make me feel like home, if I tell you you're mine?**

The door was the last bastion, the last obstacle in his way. Such a petty thing, a door, and yet he stood there biting down his fear like some schoolboy. He had gone through this moment so many times in his head. Should he knock? Walk in? He had to remember that her memories of him had been stolen, thus the potion in his hand. He eyed it, pocketed it, and took a breath, knocking.

He could hear the murmur of voices within, felt his chest tighten at the familiar sounds. Eternity stretched before him. A year...an entire year it had been since he had seen her, and he found himself suddenly unsure of what to expect. Would she answer the door? What if it was the boy, Henry? The possibility hadn't occurred to him. He silenced other worries, other thoughts of who else might open that door.

In his sudden need to distract himself, he knocked again, more insistent this time.

And then the door opened. And she was there – hair tousled, her face bemused, wearing...something...and still, she seemed like a beacon to him. He smiled, relief washing over his entire being, and breathed out her name, "Swan."

She looked confused.

"Hello-" he began, walking toward her, needing so desperately to hug her, make sure she was real.

Her hand came up to block him, "Woah, do I know you?"

"Look, I need your help. Something's happened – something terrible – your family is in trouble," he began, remembering again why he was sent here in the first place, the reason he was able to be standing in her presence now at all.

"My _family_ is right here. Who are you?"

He pushed back the pain, reminding himself that her memories were gone, "An old friend," he started, wishing that he could..."I know you can't remember me, but..."

He was feeling nervous, shifting his weight, wondering if he was right. Looking at her, feeling the way he did, his confidence grew, and his decision was made.

"...I can make you."

He reached for her, his hand finding that curve of her neck that he held before, his lips touching hers, and he felt that maybe this could w-

And then he felt sharp pain. He gasped, grunted, staggered back, being helped along with a healthy shove from his lady love. His ego was perhaps more bruised than anything, but she was quite powerful.

Emma pushed the strange man away, confused and frightened for Henry, but something...something... "What the hell are you doing?"

The man slid down the wall, groaning his response, "A long shot...I had to try. I was hoping you felt as I did."

She watched him push himself up, and while some very small part of her embarrassingly wanted to let him continue his story, her need to protect Henry won out, "The only thing you're going to feel is the handcuffs when I call the cops," she started to close the door, not liking the emotions she was feeling in this moment.

"Look, I know this seems crazy," he was coming toward her, "but you have to listen to me, you have to remember-"

And that was the last thing she heard, as she closed the door in his face.

She walked back into the dining room, Henry greeting her, "Who was that?"

Shaking her head, "No idea. Someone must have left the door open downstairs," she offered, trying to get rid of this nagging feeling that said she should open the door and talk to that man.

Killian stared at the door, trying to swallow his deep sorrow that the kiss hadn't worked. Potions, magic, they were finicky things, he reminded himself, trying to ignore the fact that it had felt so right. It felt like it should have worked.

He would have to try again. He would help her gain her memories and, more importantly, he would fulfill his word – he would win her heart. He just had to be a bit more clever. He knew her, knew how she thought, what would make her do the right thing; he just had to use that knowledge. In his hurry to see her again, he had forgotten to think, but now he would.

He would find her, have a quiet chat, and use what he knew to convince her. He had to.

It wasn't until he was being hauled off to the brig by the police officers that he thought that perhaps he was in over his head. Magic. Fucking magic. Unpredictable, unavoidable, stupid magic. He had had his fill of it with the crocodile, and here he was chasing a woman who had no clue who he was. This was madness. He had to succeed, if only to prove to her that he was truly going to win her heart. After all of this.

After sitting in a cell with a large man calling himself "Crazy Pete" who had a penchant for belching and challenging the largest brutes coming through and, finally, being handed a plain white plate with two pieces of what Killian could only assume was bread and an awful round red thing, he was told he had made bail. Two officers came in to escort him out, he was handed his things, and away he walked into the sunlight. He wasn't sure what all had happened, what had changed, but he was so glad to be free, none of it mattered.

He slid his wooden hand on, clicking it into place, as he looked up, nothing quite so beautiful to him as the open sky. His reverie was broken by a familiar voice, "Hey."

He looked down, a confused frown on his features, but it was indeed Swan, "We need to talk," she finished.

His smile returned, as he made his way down the steps, "Swan. I knew you wouldn't let me rot in that cage." He approached her, "I've been in my fair share of brigs, but none as barbaric as that – they force fed me something called bologna." His face and stomach twisted just at the memory of the foul round, red thing on that terrible bread. He pointed accusingly at the building.

She didn't seem to care, "What the hell are these?"

She produced an image, waving it in front of him. It was a picture, he saw, of Emma and Henry sitting at the diner in Storybrooke. It made his chest clench to see the photo, to hear her say, "We never lived in a town called Storybrooke. We never took a flight from Boston to New York. We never did any of this."

Hope sparked, "So you believe me, then?"

"I don't know; you could have photo shopped these pictures-"

"Photoshop?" The word sounded ridiculous. What was she going on about? And honestly, did he look like the kind of man who would know...honestly, she could be so damnably frustrating sometimes. So wonderfully hard-headed.

Emma shook her head – why would this man know what that meant? "Faked," she offered, desperate to understand what was going on.

"Do you think these are forgeries? Then why did you spring me from the brig?" he countered, gesturing to the place he had just exited.

She didn't answer right away, unsure why she had done it.

Killian answered her, "Because as much as you deny it, deep down you know something's wrong. Deep down you know I'm _right_."

She was starting to become afraid. Not of this man – she knew she had nothing to fear from him. She was afraid for the life she knew, that something _was_ off, that he was right. She was desperate to hold onto what made sense, "This is impossible. How could I forget all of this?"

To see her so desperate was painful. The kiss hadn't worked, but he needed her to remember, for so many reasons. He wanted to make her fear go away, "I promise there's an explanation," he offered.

"Not one that makes sense."

Emma refused to believe this madman. She couldn't possibly accept what he was saying. And yet she did believe him. Not just because he was telling the truth, but because something inside felt so at peace with him. Almost at home, or what she had to imagine that felt like.

Killian had little more to say – there was nothing he _could_ say. She needed to drink the damn potion, needed to remember Storybrooke, needed to remember her family. She needed to remember _him_. He reached for the vial tucked away in a hidden pocket. Holding it up to her, he pleaded, "If you drink this, it will."

She was hesitant; he understood, he did, but she had to.

"If..._if_ what you're saying is true," she started, realization dawning on her, "I'd have to give up my life here."

Hearing her say it hurt, but mostly because he knew it was true, that she would have to give up what she had, but if she could just understand, "It's all based on lies."

"But it's real," she countered, "and it's pretty good. I have Henry, a job, a guy I love-"

That stung worse. He tried to stay stoic, but it was becoming difficult, "Perhaps there's a man that you love in the life that you've lost." His voice shook, and he hated himself for that, but he hoped it was true – needed to believe that it was. He needed her to see him, the real him, standing here, not some stranger.

A moment of silence stretched between them. Emma realized that what she had said had hurt this man. She didn't know him, she reminded herself, and yet he knew her, and he obviously was pained to hear that she loved someone. She felt, oddly, that she was coming off selfish, and she didn't know why. She felt a small wave of compassion for this man standing before her.

"Regardless," he managed, his voice still wavering, "if you want to find the truth, drink up. Do you really want to live a life of lies?" His momentum was building – a last ditch effort, "You know this isn't right. Trust your gut, Swan; it will tell you what to do."

He had struck a cord, "Henry always says that," she said out loud, more a realization, a sudden thought that this man did know her, and know her well.

"Well then if you won't listen to me, listen to your boy."

That was it. He knew then that he had her, saw it in her face, that she was resigned, that he had her trust, at least in this matter. She took the bottle from him, looking at it, and without thinking too long about how crazy this all was, she opened it and poured its contents down her throat.

And in her mind, she was flying, watching another life – her own life, her true life – go by. Henry arriving at her door, meeting Regina, fighting Regina, working with Regina to revive Henry, Neal...her parents. And... "Hook," she announced, the realization dawning on her.

She suddenly felt ashamed of how she had treated him. He had helped her in Neverland, proven that he was a good man, pronounced his intentions. _Not a day will go by that I won't think of you._

The smile that graced his features was awash in relief and a kind of sadness, "Did you miss me?" They both knew, of course, that she had had no recollection, so his question was not unlike a stab. The things he had said now came flooding back to her, and they fell into place as normal things, things you would expect. _Perhaps there's a man that you love-_ she clamped down hard and fast on that thought.

Another feeling came with her memories, and she was now more confused than before her memories were returned. Her family needed her. Back home.

But this was home, now, another part of her screamed.

"Let's get off the street. I need to know everything you know," she said, trying to avoid the question and the emotions raging inside her.

Hook followed her, and though there had been some pain in this exchange, this entire process, he had Swan back. He had a chance, a real one, at last.

Back at her apartment, they exchanged brief pleasantries. But it was down to business almost immediately, as Emma produced a bottle of spiced rum.

"So what happened, Hook, why aren't you with them in Storybrooke?"

"I wasn't there when the curse happened."

"Why not?"

"Frankly, I was bored. I had a life to get back to, a pirate's life," he lied. It was easier than telling her how empty he had been.

She all but rolled her eyes, pouring the drink, "Glad to see you haven't changed."

She didn't see his hurt expression, the pain he swallowed with the bitter taste of her low blow, "There wasn't anything for me in the Enchanted Forest," he began, his eyes returning to hers, "why would I stay?"

She took in a sharp breath. She had forgotten what talking to him was like. How simultaneously withdrawn and devastatingly honest he could be. She took a sip after clinking glasses, but he refrained, continuing, "All was well until I got a message. A message saying that there was a new curse, that everyone had been returned to Storybrooke, a message that told me that the only hope," he paused to look at her, "was you."

She met his eyes, trying to gauge what was meant by his story, what he said and didn't say. He hadn't called her the savior. "You came all the way back here to save my family?" She was slightly incredulous. Maybe it was test. She wasn't even sure.

"I came back to save you," he said quietly.


End file.
